The Law of Periodic Disequilibrium

By Patrick Harris

It's post-9/11 and elite SAS officer Rafe McGregor finds himself caught between a CIA rogue boss intent on revenge and Russian Mafia gangsters in this tale of spies, politicians, corrupt bankers, and money laundering

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Harris
• Release date: Mar 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540163356

Patrick Harris

Patrick Harris is a former soldier, academic, and corporate lawyer. He has worked in many industry sectors, inlcuding mining, insurance and energy supply. He now writes full time.

Book preview

Prologue

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Two Ghost Hawk stealth helicopters came in low between ridges in a line of hills running north-west of the village.

They set down forty-five metres apart on a rough, pitted landscape. Muffled rotor blades came quickly to a stop when the engines were shut down. Electrical power was maintained; all weapons systems functioned; and helicopter crews maintained readiness and monitored communications traffic.

In each helicopter was a five-man Australian SAS team. They had been tasked with the extraction of a captive Australian diplomat held for ransom by a Taliban group in the village one and a half kilometres from their position.

In a small valley seven kilometres further west two Apache helicopters sat waiting to be called in if a major battle ensued.

Apaches were flying tanks with enormous firepower; and with such incredible versatility they could deliver a devastating barrage of fire even if flying upside down.

Lieutenant John Deegan was in command of the operation. This was his third extraction mission; all but one preceding this had been successful, with hostages freed unhurt.

The unsuccessful mission still freed unharmed one of two prisoners and resulted in the death of a terrorist leader and many of his men. The few left alive would spend what time they had remaining in secret interrogation facilities, each man wishing he had chosen a different path to glory.

Lieutenant Rafe McGregor was second-in-command and led one of the two teams. This was his first extraction mission, though he had seen action in raids on terrorist training camps in northern Africa. Then, he had been on detachment to the British SAS.

Elite skills notwithstanding, McGregor was there because he knew the captive diplomat, Doctor Adam Lynch, who had been guest lecturer in a master’s degree program in which McGregor was enrolled.

Adam Lynch headed a Foreign Affairs Department section of roving ambassadors; professional diplomats who came along after sometimes clumsy politicians and patched up what they got wrong... or were there to keep back-channels open.

Lynch had been snatched four days’ earlier in a daring raid on his hotel in Abbottabad that left many people dead, including his three Pakistani Army bodyguards.

Night-vision goggles were not necessary to see the village. Some of the dwellings were lit, albeit with oil lamps.

Deegan looked through a night-scope, checking for what was outside the buildings. He could see guards at various points throughout the village: six were visible. An unknown number would be inside the dwellings.

Satellite images of the village showed a small population of about forty people...a mix of men, women, and a few children.

The largest structure was in the village’s centre. It was the only building with two levels; and the only one with electricity. Its aging generator could be heard thumping away even at this distance. That building, he had been advised, was the likely place to find Lynch.

That was where the signal from the device embedded in Lynch’s spectacle frame originated, if he was still wearing them. By now they might have been removed and be in someone else’s possession.

Still, it was the best intelligence they had; and until it was otherwise indicated, that building was the primary target.

The SAS teams moved off into the night and reached the village outskirts quickly. Their individual assignments had been given via radio links between each man.

What was said was being monitored at the Defence Signals Agency in Canberra and at CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia.

Deegan came up silently and quickly from the ground behind a Taliban guard who would never know his attacker. A strong left hand clamped over the guard’s nose and mouth; his throat was slit and his body quietly laid to the ground by Deegan.

The five other Taliban guards were similarly killed, and no one in the village seemed alert to it by the time Rafe McGregor reached the central building’s main door. Two SAS troopers were with him.

McGregor tested the door and found it unlocked or barred. He pushed it ajar enough to see inside.

Two guards were seated at a small table, set four metres from the stairs leading to the upper floor; they drank coffee and played cards.

McGregor signaled the information with finger gestures to his SAS comrades. They knew what to do and needed no further instructions.

He pushed open the door with his assault rifle trained on the nearest guard and got off a silenced shot before the man had time to clear his chair; he slumped dead in it.

The other guard was killed a moment later with a shot to the head by one of the SAS men who came in behind McGregor.

No sound came from upstairs. No one was alert to their presence. What little sound was made with the guards’ deaths had been disguised by the noise of the electricity generator.

And then they heard a man speak...asking to go to the toilet. The man’s voice was unmistakable. McGregor recognized that it belonged to Adam Lynch.

He signaled positive ID by saying softly into his intercom’s mouthpiece, Extract.

The seven SAS men outside had positioned themselves around the village’s boundary at points where all the buildings could be covered. If gunfire erupted and others came outside to help they would get a nasty surprise.

McGregor went up the wood-and-mudbrick stairway until he could see into the open area of the second floor.

On one side of the room two guards sat on a long lounge chair set against the far wall. AK-47 rifles lay across their laps.

McGregor moved up a little further and could then see the opposite side of the room.

There, seated in a single chair beside a small table, a fat, heavily-bearded man puffed on a cigarette and used a thumb to flick nervously through beads on a string of them held in his right hand.

Lynch was nowhere in sight. They must have allowed him to go somewhere he could urinate; but where that was could not be seen from McGregor’s line of sight.

He signaled three guards; one appeared to be in charge. That man would be left alive, for the time being. The two others seated on the lounge would be having their last cups of coffee before dying.

McGregor cleared the stairway and the two guards on the lounge died moments later...the backs of their heads blown out and brains and blood scattered across the wall behind them.

Despite his bulk the leader jumped quickly to his feet and the beads fell from his hand. He intended reaching for the gun tucked into his belt, but that action was stopped by the two SAS men quickly reaching him with their rifles aimed at his chest and face.

The leader’s large-calibre revolver was removed from his belt by McGregor and thrown onto the lounge with the dead guards.

Where is Ambassador Lynch? McGregor asked.

The leader appeared defiant. He said nothing and looked away.

McGregor signaled one of his men fluent in Dari, the most widely used Afghan language, to ask the question.

Still the leader gave no reply. McGregor was prepared for tougher interrogation methods; but then, what had appeared as a large closet door, opened to reveal a crude toilet. On it sat Adam Lynch.

I thought I heard an Australian voice, Lynch said.

One of the SAS men had immediately dropped to a kneeling position with his rifle pointed at the opening closet door. When he saw that no threat was present he rose and re-trained the rifle on the stairway. His comrade continued to cover the leader.

We’re glad to see that you’re okay, sir, McGregor said.

Dressed in combat attire, his face smeared in camouflage paint and head covered in a helmet that had night-vision goggles attached to it, McGregor wasn’t at first recognized by Lynch.

Is that you, Rafe?

McGregor smiled. Yes, sir. Now, we have to get you out of this place. Can you finish your toilet quickly?

Oh, that’s done. He got up from the crude pan and pulled up his trouser pants. There, he said, I’m ready.

McGregor issued another instruction to his Dari speaker. Tell him we’re taking him prisoner. He can go with us and not cause trouble, or we can kill him now. What’s his choice?

The leader responded quickly in heavily-accented English. I go with you...not be any trouble.

McGregor didn’t believe the leader. He was led to the stairs handcuffed with his hands behind his back and mouth gagged. Lynch was shepherded by McGregor.

Outside all was quiet, but for the generator’s now familiar thumping sound as it worked to provide power.

When McGregor came out through the door with Lynch, Deegan signaled withdrawal, and the team moved off into the darkness.

McGregor and Lynch were almost half way to the helicopters when the diplomat tripped and fell heavily to the ground. Then, as he was being helped to his feet by McGregor, shots rang out from the village, with firing in all directions.

The bodies had been discovered.

McGregor slammed Lynch’s body back to the ground and went down himself. The Taliban leader was similarly treated.

The other SAS men dropped and faced the village. None of them had been hit. But bullets flew overhead from at least a dozen AK-47s; their slapping sound was obvious.

The villagers fired blindly into the night. It was clear they did not have night-sights.

Deegan had to make a choice, one that offered the best chance for most of his people surviving.

They could crawl back to the helicopters and stay under the hail of bullets...at least until their attackers got the idea of firing closer to the ground. Then they might hit someone.

Or he could stay where he was and call in the Apaches.

And if he did that there might be a political price to pay for the village’s destruction...

The Ghost Hawk helicopters restarted engines the moment fire erupted from the village. They lifted quickly and flew up and away enough to be certain they were out of range of the AK-47s being fired from the village. And then the lead pilot spoke with mission commander Deegan.

Do we call in Apaches or should we light up the bastards ourselves, John?

Not the Apaches, Deegan answered. You deal with it, Dave. Put two rockets into the village’s centre – the building we were in. That’ll shut them up long enough for us to get out.

Roger that.

Almost immediately two rockets were launched from one of the copters and the centre of the village exploded, blowing apart the two-storey structure and bodies inside it. Impacts were felt throughout the village.

The aging generator was no more; bits of its metal structure flew in many directions, some pieces of it killing a woman who had thrown herself across her infant son standing at the open doorway watching his father firing into the night. The father was dead, too.

Hostile fire quickly ceased. Those alive and still able were helping others.

Deegan, McGregor, and the teams quickly retreated. Barely ten minutes had passed before the Ghost Hawks landed and their passengers clambered aboard.

In the air again and quickly making distance from the chaos and destruction behind them, US Army pilot Lieutenant Dave Pender issued the words awaited in Canberra and Langley into his radio mouthpiece: Ace Extract. We have no casualties.

The gagged and cuffed Taliban leader could only imagine his destiny. All that was certain was that it would not be good... unless perhaps he co-operated with his captors.

Adam Lynch looked into McGregor’s eyes. He said nothing but relief and gratitude was clear in his expression.

McGregor nodded slightly and smiled. He liked Lynch – his prospective father-in-law if he decided on a marriage proposal to Lynch’s daughter Rosemary.

But he was no longer sure about that. Personal involvement in her father’s rescue changed things. He had been forced to confront the fact that his occupation was far more dangerous than Lynch’s own, and he had no intention of abandoning military life.

How would Rosemary deal with that situation, one likely to be repeated regularly, if heightened levels of terrorism were any guide?

Now the question was obvious; it should have been earlier, before they loved one another and made things so much more complicated.

Lynch closed his eyes and tried to sleep. One lesson learned from this experience was that if there were any more missions in hazardous places, he would likely have SAS protection. And even then there were no guarantees.

In the lead helicopter, Dave Pender flicked a switch cutting transmission from his radio to the outside world; only those near him could hear his voice.

We’ll be fighting bastards like these for a long time. We should’ve leveled that fucking village so we wouldn’t have to fight that lot again.

John Deegan felt much the same. But he also knew that in this dramatically changed world it was as much a political game as it was a military one. It left them with the most complex war the West had ever fought...one that he now believed could last for generations.

PART I

ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE

1

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Prime Minister Warwick Camden had meticulously plotted his career path. He started out a professional soldier, graduating in law while still a serving officer.

The last decade of his service was as a military lawyer, most of the time acting as legal counsel to military attachés at Australian embassies in Paris, Cairo, and Washington. He gathered useful contacts wherever he went.

Camden was fluent in French, and spoke it at home with his French-born wife and their two daughters.

He always intended a career in politics, with ambitions even after that. He resigned his commission at forty and less than two years later he was leader of the Social Democrats, made possible with the untimely death of its leader, a man well-liked, but with little electoral success to show for it.

Conservative Party leader and then-prime minister Sir Walter McFadden called an early election in February 2000.

He made the mistake of thinking that a newly-installed Opposition Leader would not have time to cement himself in the job and in the minds of electors.

McFadden failed to understand that Camden was already well known to electors, by dint of regular appearances on a popular television talk show.

Camden’s friendly demeanor and what seemed thoughtful and sometimes funny responses to the various issues discussed made him a popular guest. This, too, had been in Camden’s plan for greatness.

Most polls predicted a narrow Conservative Party victory. Instead, they lost nineteen seats, giving the Social Democrats a comfortable six seat majority. The two Independents’ votes did not matter to either major grouping.

*

The parents of Maximilian Gracchus Whitten were classical scholars who burdened their son with a name that reflected their passion for the subject. He was better known simply as Max.

He began like his parents: an academic, teaching economics under-laid with his interpretation of history. He was popular with students, though University administrators wished they had never hired him. But it was too late to reverse it; he had tenure.

At the outbreak of World War Two he substituted academia for military service. And at war’s end he was a major with an impressive record. Counted among honours was a Distinguished Service Cross.

On his return he found no further interest in academe. It was dull after time in war. Politics beckoned; and he heeded the call.

Whitten was big in every way, from the power of his brain to the size of his body and boom in his voice. Everyone could see him coming. Standing six foot eight inches he was always taller than anyone around him.

And he might have been born to be a politician...and for that matter, a